


Bought and Paid For

by Coragyps



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Caretaking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Geralt's Canonically Huge Dick, M/M, Oral Sex, Prostitute!Jaskier, Prostitution, Shy Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:35:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26376625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coragyps/pseuds/Coragyps
Summary: In which Jaskier is less of a bard, more of a whore - and Geralt is weary after a long night fighting monsters, and looking for respite.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 11
Kudos: 449





	Bought and Paid For

**Author's Note:**

> Pity me, I read the books first and am devastated to learn that it's apparently pronounced JER-alt, while I was picturing this faintly teutonic Ger-ALT sort of name (also Jaskier is pronounced kind of Spanish-style with a Y ... whoops).

"I’m sorry, Sir," said the alderman, and to be fair, he did sound sincerely apologetic. "You see, this village gains all of its income from the rice harvest, and this past year, with the drowners so thick in the fields, we have been too afraid to farm – and so in short, we have no coin to offer you in payment for your bloody work this evening."

"I see," said Geralt. He had struck his back in a careless fall, and it ached from his arse to the nape of his neck. His leg was still bleeding sluggishly.

"But we are honorable people, though poor," said the alderman eagerly. "You will be welcomed as a guest at our inn, and feast of what simple fare we can offer, and we do still have fine ale stored away that we will open for you - and you shall have the services of any whore you choose."

Geralt raised an eyebrow. He wondered how good the whores were in a small, out of the way village like this. But he was guessing the ale at least was very good ...

The ale _was_ good, and the inn was well kept, and after two tankards he didn’t resist the innkeeper as hard as he ought to have when he urged in a lineup of whores.

Geralt hadn't even stripped out of his muddy clothes. How they must fear and despise him, he thought muzzily, with his eerie golden eyes, his unnatural white hair caked with blood. He should order his dinner up to his room and rest, instead of troubling them. It wasn't their fault that he had been shorted his payment for the drowners.

Still, it was evident that the girls were all pretty and young and not visibly diseased, and they tittered nervously and whispered to each other in their line. Geralt wasn't a monk, and he wasn't blind (in fact his eyesight was better than most) - and well, he had worked hard, out in the marshes. He inhaled and his sensitive nose was seduced by the familiar aroma of violet water and rouge. And something ... particularly intriguing, bright like oranges.

Close to the end of the line there was one boy, also young, also pretty, dressed in faded silks. From the lute strung over his shoulder he was a musician – out here in the Western lands, musicians were often whores.

Geralt didn't admit it often, but he liked music, if it was quiet and played with skill. And more to the point, it had been a while since he had been able to plunge his prick into a man's tight arse, instead of a woman’s generous cunny. Sometimes he had the taste for that.

He left his tankard and walked down the line, aware he himself must smell horrific, still damp from the dirty marsh water. He reached the boy, debated, and paused. "Do you suck cock?" he asked shortly.

The boy puffed with what might have been professional pride. "Of course I do, I am a whore after all."

"I am ... sore, and dirty," said Geralt. "I want an easy a night to rest and recover."

"And your cock sucked properly, by one who knows how it should be done! Of course. And anything else you may desire. We were told on good authority you were to have the whole night."

The boy had a pleasant voice, clear and light.

Geralt cleared his throat. "And you are here willingly?" he asked. "You are not a debt slave, or in thrawl to anyone?"

"I’m merely a travelling man looking to earn an honest wage," said the boy. "I ran out of coin about the time I came into this village with winter close on my heels. I earn my keep through the cold weather and in the Spring I will travel on."

Still Geralt paused, though he cursed himself for a thrice-damned fool. "And you are – of age?" The boy certainly looked of age, or Geralt would not have considered him, but sometimes the faces of humans were deceptive. Everyone seemed very young, sometimes, to Geralt. And ordinary humans were so fragile, so easily killed or wounded; he’d have to be careful, tonight. So careful.

"I am flattered you would even ask, Master Witcher," began the boy grandly - but something in Geralt’s face caused him to cut off with a cough. "I am more than old enough," he said quietly.

"I want this boy, and a hot meal sent up," Geralt announced, turning for the stairs.

The boy scrambled after him.

The room was large and clean, far better than his usual lodgings he had to admit. It was the whole top level of the inn, with a sitting room as well as a separate sleeping chamber.

They had barely cleared the heavy door before Geralt pushed the boy to his knees. He was surprised by his own urgency. Perhaps it had been too long.

The whore was wise enough not to struggle as Geralt uncovered his cock, coaxed the boy’s lips open, and pushed himself rudely inside.

Muffled by cock, the boy rolled his big blue eyes up to study Geralt’s face, choking pleasurably on the witcher’s not inconsiderable length. He was far too experienced to panic, and he let Geralt cup the back of his head - his hair was very soft - and thrust as deep as he might, controlling his own response. His jaw was stretched wide and would start to ache, thought Geralt, letting his own head drop back in pleasure at the thought.

But his knees would be sore, on the hard floor, and anyway Geralt didn't want to spend this way, so soon. He would have pulled back except that the boy wound his hands around Geralt's thighs and tugged him in deeper, controlling the angle of his throat to swallow more of it, far further than anyone had ever swallowed him, almost right down to the root. Geralt groaned, and the boy responded with a hum of pleasure - followed by a sudden exclamation, and the hands that had been pulling him in instead pushed him back.

Geralt withdrew immediately. "What is it?" He forced the boy's head up with a finger under his chin, pushing the dark curls out of his face to see his expression. "Did I hurt you?"

The boy looked surprised. "No, of course not," he said. "I’m very tough. I can take anything ... You’re an awfully sweet man, aren’t you, for a monster killer?"

"I fight what needs killing, not those that don’t," said Geralt, uncomfortable. "Anyway, why did you stop then?"

"Because you’re hurt." The boy gestured to the split in Geralt’s thigh, where some damned tree branch caught him when he was knocked back for a moment by a drowner as it exploded out of the marsh.

"It’s nothing," said Geralt. "It will heal by morning." It would take longer to mend the rent in his trousers.

"Really?" The boy’s eyes were alight with enthusiasm. "So it’s true what they say? You heal faster than a man? This would take anyone else a week to close up, and leave a nasty scar as well."

"It may well scar," Geralt said indifferently.

"Are you hurt anywhere else?"

"Nothing worth mentioning." The pain in his back had long since been overshadowed by the demands of his cock.

"They should have sent up hot water for you, at least," said the boy, looking around. "And you were to have a dinner already set up in your room, the alderman ordered it."

Geralt turned to see; there was indeed a table in the adjoining room, loaded with provisions. He wondered if the boy was hungry; he certainly was himself. Taking the boy by the shoulder (he was never sure how well humans, unaugmented, could see in the dark; it had been so long that he couldn't remember) he lit the lamp that was sitting waiting.

"What’s your name, boy? You already know mine." He can’t keep calling him 'the boy' or 'the whore.'

"It's Jaskier, like the flower. My, look at this fine repast they have laid out for you! The innkeeper has emptied his cupboards." He set his lute carefully in the corner - Geralt noted that two of the strings were broken - and hurried to pull out the bench.

"I’m not really one for fancy fare," Geralt admitted; his stomach was often unsettled after the potions he took for his bloody work. "I liked the ale though, and perhaps something simple. This bread, perhaps."

"You must at least have one slice of this mince pie while it is still warm," Jaskier bossed, cutting a generous slice and slathering sweet butter on Geralt's slice of bread. "You have worked hard."

When it was handed to him, Geralt discovered that he was in fact hungrier than he thought, and the peasant food was not too much for his system to handle. "Dig in," he told the boy – Jaskier. "You might as well."

"I’m not the one who killed those creatures in the marsh," said Jaskier, but his eyes were on the table. What whore didn't have a taste for luxury and pleasure? None that were successful at their trade.

"I’m sure you work hard for your coin too. You should eat." Anyway, the boy was too slight. He could use more meat on his bones.

Jaskier did not take too much convincing, so they ate together, side by side on the lone bench. Geralt was not used to dining companions, and was aware that his table manners had suffered neglect - a witcher could put away far more than an ordinary man, when he had a mind to and the food was worth eating. The townspeople had not stinted in this at least. Perhaps they could afford to be generous now that they could harvest their crop again.

Looking up from his own truncheon at last he watched Jaskier indulge in the finer items on the table, the buttery cakes and sweet pies.

Jaskier caught him watching. "One bite?" he said, offering a sugar dumpling up to Geralt’s lips. When Geralt did not insist otherwise, he brought it closer. "Come now, Witcher. You must still be hungry."

It was harmless lover’s play, Geralt reminded himself. It was probably not a deadly potion designed to weaken or kill him. This boy would not – could not – hurt him. He was safe enough for one night to indulge in something meaningless like this.

He parted his lips and let Jaskier feed him the treat. An explosion of sugar and honey melted on his tongue.

"Good?" asked Jaskier, breathless.

Geralt had not eaten such things since – well, not in living memory. He swallowed, licking the sugar from his lips, and nodded.

"They have probably sent the bucket of water now," said Jaskier. "Do you want me to help you clean up?"

It was a pity there was no bathtub, but such things were too luxurious for an out-of-the-way place like this. He was lucky it wasn't a cold running stream or the icy rains again. Geralt accepted that his Path meant deserving little better, if not sleeping in his own filth.

On the other hand, he did not want to make the whore's job harder. Jaskier deserved to have at least clean, sweet smelling skin for his endeavors.

Geralt nodded, and the boy went to the door to bring in a steaming pot of water and a soft cleansing cloth from the hall, setting it up before the banked fire. Geralt approached and the boy started to undress him, frowning at the complicated buckling of his armor. Geralt gently pushed him back and removed it himself. Undeterred, Jaskier dropped to his knees to help pull off his worn boots. Then he pressed a kiss to the inside of his knee, peering slyly up through his eyelashes to measure the effect.

His soiled hands had dirtied the boy’s cheek, before. Before he could think too much of it, Geralt wiped it away with his thumb.

Geralt stepped out of his shirt and his torn trousers, letting the boy’s bold eyes roam over him. He was indifferent to the attention, whether Jaskier was impressed with his muscles or repulsed by his scars. Either way, he was Geralt’s prize for tonight, fair and square. He was there in lieu of the bag of gold coins the aldermen had promised.

"Good lord," said Jaskier, in genuine surprise, glancing down as Geralt slid down his small clothes. "I thought I had the whole thing in my mouth before, and that seemed substantial enough, but I see now you had two fists around the base of it."

Geralt was not foolish enough to be taken by the flattery of a whore, but it was true that his prick was unnaturally large. It might have been the effect of some mutagen. _Eye of a cat_ , the other boys at Kaer Morhen had joked, _dick of a horse_.

He wondered if the boy was hesitating - many a whore before him had done the same - but Jaskier was back to examining the split in his thigh, which was already starting to heal, to Geralt's experienced eye. "I will send for some healing balm and some linen," said the boy, bounced to his feet.

Geralt wanted to tell him it wasn’t worth wasting supplies on, but something caused him to hold his tongue. Better not to talk too much and ruin this pretty spell before it was done casting.

When he returned Jaskier took up the cloth and some lavender soap and began scrubbing vigorously – with unflattering vigor, in fact – at Geralt's muddy calves. Usually he would use nothing strong smelling: he did not need to announce his presence to every Beast and monster in the surrounding forests. But Geralt let it happen, on the assumption that the boy would prefer to be bedded by someone who smelled like lavender soap than viscera of monsters. How much more difficult to feign passion when your client was covered in gore.

Plus Jaskier’s careful hands felt surprisingly good on his skin. He was gentle around the gash in his thigh, sluicing soapy water over it, with one hand on the muscle as though to distract from any pain.

Geralt did not feel any pain.

"Alright?" asked the boy, with seeming shyness. It must be feigned, being a whore and all. There were no shy whores. But Geralt nodded anyway.

Moving the cloth over his chest the boy started to hum, gentle and low. It was – not repellant. Up over his arms, his shoulders, his neck - Geralt tensed - Was it possible that the alderman, or some past enemy, would pay a whore to slit his throat? It was not outside the realm of possibility. And yet, Geralt still let the boy move around behind him, listening to his soft humming as arranged the white hair over his shoulders and began moving down Geralt's sore back with gentle hands.

"You've got quite a bruise here. I'll be careful."

"Hmm."

The scent of lavender was lulling him into drowsiness, even though his cock was still half-hard. More fool he, to get a whore and then use him as a personal valet.

If he fell asleep, it would certainly be a waste of a free night of fucking – and perhaps that was the boy’s intent, perhaps he was indeed as horrified by his scarred and skulking client as the girls downstairs, just as repulsed at the thought of touching the secret parts of his body to the filthy skin of a witcher. He would not be the first. But even if that was the case, Geralt could not find it in himself to care. He had spent hard and solitary months crossing the mountains into these lands, and one night of being treated gently, even if it were all dissembling, just one evening of being seen to even as little as he saw to Roach – washed and combed out, bedded down in soft straw with good food in his belly and then left until morning – was more luxury than he dreamed of.

He was glad that the villagers had no gold coins to pay him in, and had instead offered him this soft boy who now smelled strongly of suckling pig.

"Do not fall asleep, Witcher," warned Jaskier, belying Geralt’s suspicions. "I’m hardly done with you yet, and that thigh wound of yours needs seen to."

"It's fine," muttered Geralt, closing his hand around the boy’s wrist and holding him steady against his back to feel the living heat of him a little longer. Jaskier paused and then reached, the cheeky thing, for Geralt’s prick, giving him a good stroke with a hand still wet with lavender water. 

"Well, you’re not asleep here, anyway," said Jaskier teasingly. Geralt let his lips turn up into as much of a smile as he ever managed.

Jaskier went to fetch a soft towel – more unlooked for luxury! – and tutted when Geralt tried to take it from him, insisting on keeping it himself and buffing and patting down all of Geralt’s damp skin, musing over his scars, tracing a few of them with careful fingers. And if he was checking for pox too, well, Geralt could hardly blame him for that.

"Let’s get this mended next," he murmured, gently blotting the water from around Geralt’s wound. He guided Geralt to sit on a low stool before the fire, and then he knelt between his spread legs (each muscular thigh was larger than his head) to carefully – if inexpertly – apply balm to the sliced skin. Finally he wrapped it up, the dressing far too loose to stay in place given Geralt’s lifestyle. He was certainly no healer. But again Geralt said nothing, just studied the soft hair of the bent head and finally reached out a hand to stroke it back behind his ear, ashamed of the tenderness of the touch as soon as he had done it.

"Get undressed," said Geralt gruffly. "I want to see you too."

The boy gave a saucy wink and obliged, no doubt trying to do it slowly, sexily, but Geralt didn’t care about that kind of thing. He tugged the shirt out of his hands and tossed it. The boy smelled good, fresh and vital, still faintly of oranges under their meal. Very clean, for a whore. He pulled the boy over by the hips and stripped the trousers off him – pale little thing, all limbs like a young deer ... and Geralt was the White Wolf, after all. He tugged the arms away to explore his pink little nipples – high and tight with excitement – his pretty dick half hard already, his neatly shaven balls.

The boy guided his fingers back to his arse, where he was pleasingly wet and open. He must have stretched an oiled himself well before joining the line downstairs, which made sense if he could not be sure his customers would always treat him with care. Which was a pity, as Geralt liked to do the opening up himself, liked to use his fingers and his tongue.

"It's alright," said the boy brightly, pressing Geralt’s fingers into him. "Mmn, you feel so good inside me. I can’t wait to be split open on your cock. I won’t sit down for a week!"

"I won’t - hurt you," muttered Geralt.

"Perhaps I want you to," said the boy, pressing back against Geralt’s hand.

Their faces were close together. It was was a myth that whores did not kiss – for coin, most of them would do anything, in Geralt’s experience – but he did not press this one.

He withdrew and sat back, watching the boy in the flickering light of the fire.

He had still been half expecting Jaskier to try talk him out of his prize as easily as the alderman had talked him out of his payment, but instead the boy dropped to his knees eagerly and leaned a little closer to Geralt, his pink mouth open.

"Let’s go into the other room," said Geralt, rising out of his stool.

Jaskier huffed, still on his knees. "Are you one of those that just wants to talk?"

"Is that common?" asked Geralt, surprised – he would never waste his coin on things he preferred to avoid, such as conversation.

The boy shrugged. "It happens. Not usually to me. We had a girl here, Liliat – broad face like a milkmaid, and an ample bosom like a cow. She would get those ones, mostly."

Geralt thought of the bones he had encountered in the marsh on his way out to the drowners. "Had?"

"She married the last one," the boy hastened to tell him. "They live two towns over, I hear they will have their first child any day."

Geralt was strangely relieved. Somehow he did not want to think of harm coming to this town’s whores. "Come," he said. "I want to be in the room with the bed for this." He crossed the room, the boy trailing him, and ushered him into the sleeping chamber, careful to close and bolt the door behind them.

"Now then!" said Jaskier cheerfully, when he was done. "What would you like first? I didn’t really get the chance to show you the skills of my mouth, which I can assure you men sing songs about – or my arse, parhaps, if you prefer that? Or we can –"

But what else they could do Geralt did not hear, because he had taken the boy around the waist and tossed him face down on the bed, and with near-supernatural quickness (perhaps those potions had not entirely worn off after all) he followed after.

"Oh!" gasped Jaskier. Geralt had a moment to think that he shouldn’t scare the little human, that he ought to remember they were fragile and so easily startled, but really he was already working his cock between the boy’s pale thighs, easily pinning the lithe limbs spread where he wanted them, hands over his head, knees spread wide around Geralt’s hips.

"So I guess we’re not just going to talk," teased Jaskier, turning his face to the side.

Geralt huffed gently, spreading the copious slick of his cock down his shaft to make it smooth.

"You laugh, but you might be surprised. In bigger, more cultured towns I can earn as much with my songs as I can on my back."

Geralt didn't wonder; the boy’s soft red mouth, his clever fingers, must be tempting coins out of the pockets of men in the ale house, one way or another.

He bent to nibble at pale knob at the top of Jaskier's spine, tipping his head back into the pillows in the idle hope it would keep him from chattering until Geralt at least got to finish fucking him. His fingers traced down to the shining little divot of his oiled hole, dipped inside.

"Oh, don’t!" said Jaskier, kicking feebly.

Geralt stopped and sat up. "What’s wrong?"

"...Nothing?" said Jaskier, rolling over and blinking. "A little sport ... the White Wolf, Ravaging the innocent little lamb who strayed too far from the fold?" His eyes were bright, perhaps a little too knowing as he trailed his fingers up Geralt’s solid arm. "I thought perhaps you would like that kind of thing."

"Well I don’t," said Geralt. Anyway, this little trollop was hardly a sweet lamb of the spring meadows.

"Do you want something else? I can be anything you like. Your sexy harem girl? Or if you want it soft, perhaps your naïve young serving boy?"

"Just be – yourself," said Geralt, uncomfortable. "The whore taking my cock at an inn after the villagers shorted me out of my wage."

"I can do that," said Jaskier lightly, but it came after a little pause and Geralt wondered if he _did_ know how to do that.

"Pretend – pretend I’m just a man you met at the tavern," said Geralt, lifting the pale thighs again to line himself up, with the boy on his back this time, knees slung up over Geralt’s hips. Jaskier moaned obligingly at the touch of his dick and didn’t struggle, relaxing to take it so nicely. "And you were playing your songs, and I was in my cups, but you took a fancy to me, and when you were done playing –" he pressed in further, and Jaskier gasped, low and strained, and then moaned – "when you were done you came over, and invited me up to your rooms, and now here we are." With a good thrust he settled himself all the way inside, enjoying the fluttering of Jaskier’s body as it struggled to adapt to the girth of him. "Gods, you’re tight for a whore."

"You know, everyone else says that word like it’s an insult," said Jaskier, lying back limply, gasping for breath. Geralt was familiar with this – they said _Witcher_ the same way. But it was simply his job. Was what he did for coin.

He started a nice slow fuck, matching his strokes to his own heartbeat, enjoying the counterpoint of the boy's spiky pulse. Jaskier did not complain but it must be difficult to take so much at once. Geralt gave him lots of time to adjust.

He had a sudden flash of the boy, crushed beneath the weight of the doughty farmers of this village, who might take his arse too roughly, his britches pulled down around his ankles, bent over the bed. This sweet little arse which was so warm and welcoming around Geralt’s prick.

"Come, I want you to sit astride," said Geralt. "I can go for a long time, you’ll get – you’ll be sore else."

They took a moment to switch positions, and Jaskier finally straddled him, taking hold of his prick with an oiled hand and guiding it back behind him, where it belonged.

"Ah, that’s it," said Jaskier, settling down in his lap with a little squirm of pleasure. He darted forward to press a sweet kiss against Geralt’s thin lips, but he had sat back before Geralt could object. "Filling me up so nicely, aren’t you? Does it feel good?" He was studying Geralt’s face. There was a reason Geralt generally preferred not to fuck this way. "Yes, you feel so nice inside me. Mm, I like that. You’re very good at this."

Geralt covered his mouth with his hand. "You don’t need to lie and carry on," he said gruffly. In truth he liked it far too much.

The boy was in no way deterred by the stifling hand, moaning exaggeratedly behind it, his wet mouth pressed to Geralt’s palm. Oh, but he was a helpless little thing. Geralt shifted his weight easily, taking him that last little inch deeper.

"Mmph," managed the boy, still muffled. Geralt took his hand away and set it on a pale hip instead, bouncing him on his lap until he reached for Geralt’s shoulders and braced himself, his hips working agilely.

"You really are a machine," he said wonderingly.

“It takes me a long time to come,” said Geralt stupidly. “Sorry. Sometimes the women don’t like it.”

“If we need more oil, I’ve got some,” said Jaskier carelessly, closing his eyes and shifting his hips consideringly in order to feel the different angles. “Gods, they should pay _you_ for this. Oh, I’m already so close!”

“Come on my cock,” said Geralt, knocking his hands away from his little prick, then gathering them behind his back and holding them there, thrusting up harder into that sweet warmth until the boy whined, his face scrunched up, and come over both of their bellies.

Satisfied, Geralt nibbled at his jaw and kept thrusting steadily as the boy went limp, resting his head on Geralt’s shoulder for the rest of their coupling and mouthing softly at the skin of Geralt’s neck. Until finally Geralt let himself spend deep inside the boy’s body.

"Ah," Jaskier sighed in satisfaction, and Geralt – who could smell deception – huffed in a deep breath of unvarnished truth. He _did_ like it.

He was not so fragile as Geralt first thought. There was good, stubborn life in him.

Geralt kept them connected as he turned. His prick, though spent, would stay hard for a while yet. He arranged the boy on his side, his leg hitched up over Geralt’s hip, his own hand cupping the boy’s backside, thumb stroking into the split of him, where he was still planted. "Is this – alright? Not uncomfortable for you?"

"Mmph," said the boy, his lips pressed to Geralt’s chest, almost at the nipple like a babe. "S’good."

They were still as Geralt's dick slowly deflated, until finally it slid out of its own accord, unable to stay in the boy's warm arse any longer. Geralt mourned the loss. He would not be good for another round tonight, more was the pity.

His hand had slid to Jaskier's hair, holding him tucked against his side, touching at every point. His head was swimming at all the unfamiliar contact, and he felt his unnatural heart slow even further at the sensation. Not since he was a child had he been so close to another for so long. No other whore he had paid for would be willing to spend so long in his bed. By the time he finally spilled they were usually eager to get rid of him.

"The alderman said I could have you all night," he mumbled. "Right?"

"Yes, unless you want me to leave," said Jaskier.

Geralt _should_ get rid of him, send him on his way, perhaps even to another man's bed. "I want you to – stay," he said instead.

"Of course – if you’re sure I won’t disturb your sleep."

"Hmm," said Geralt. Petting the hair and the nape of the boy’s neck, the shoulder, down the slender path of his spine.

"This is quite a luxury," said Jaskier sleepily. "Thanks for choosing me tonight. Truth be told, business has been a little slow lately in this town. I was starting to think I may not be cut out for the profession."

Geralt let him chatter on, distracted by the visible mark at the top of his spine, a match no doubt for his own teeth.

"Of course, it’s not a bad life, on the whole," said Jaskier. "I like sex and I’m better at that than I am at working in a rice field. The only other thing I’m good at is singing and there’s not much call for that here. But if I could –" he snuck a peek at Geralt through his long dark eyelashes – "I’d like to get back on the road. Before I got caught here in this wretched cold, I was a traveling bard. I … I got in a lot of trouble though. The world is not always kind to travelers."

Geralt could picture him, how easily he would lose his purse or his shirt. He seemed like the kind of fellow that would always find trouble.

"What is so great about travel?" wondered Geralt. "A comely man like yourself could surely find a wealthy man or woman to keep you in your fancy silks and lute strings. You could stay in a comfortable manor house or even a castle."

"I want to see the world," said Jaskier. "I want to see great deeds and sing about them ...You do great deeds, don’t you, Geralt of Rivia?"

Geralt snorted. Jaskier had a way of talking as if they were having a much larger conversation – or perhaps an argument – that he was only half following, and eventually it seemed that the boy would decide when he had won. "I do mostly terrible deeds, but I – I try to do them well," he said. "Now stop nattering on. After a fuck like that, I want to sleep. And maybe if I'm lucky I'll regain my strength enough to acquaint myself with that mouth of yours a little better in the morning."

Jaskier chuckled, and did not object as Geralt rearranged them so that his head rested over the witcher's heart, so that he could be lulled to sleep by its slow beat.

In the early morning Geralt rose and stretched with satisfaction. He had slept deeply and the view out the window showed an unusually fine and mild day for traveling.

His bed was empty.

Ah well, it had been more than he had hoped for anyway.

He meant to put in many miles on his journey to a town far to the East, where he had heard they had a problem with the dead popping up out of their graves. It sounded like an expensive sort of problem.

He accepted a loaf for his breakfast and went down to the stables to saddle Roach in the blue dawn. There was an unfamiliar leather satchel stacked neatly next to his own - and a lute in a carrying case.

"Hmm."

Geralt lead his horse, loaded up with bags, out onto the cobblestone road and set off towards the main thoroughfare, his pace steady but his ears pricked for any sound out of place.

He had not been travelling more than five minutes before Jaskier popped out of the verge, panting and chattering merrily away.

Geralt gathered him up before him onto Roach's broad back. When they reached the main gate he announced loudly to the guards that, since the village could not pay him what he was owed, he was taking this whore with him as payment.

Nobody stopped him.

Jaskier started to sing as they cleared the edge of town and headed out onto the open road.

**Author's Note:**

> I am considering putting original erotic M/M fiction onto KDP. If this appeals to you, send an email to Coragyps01 (at) gmail (dot) com and I'll let you know when it's up. Thank you!


End file.
